he's a wolf like me
by expiredvoices
Summary: A minor slip up turns into a fatal injury. Maya, half-dead but walking, is found just before a killing blow by a mysterious assassin named Zer0. He mends her wounds and instructs her to remain still for the duration of her healing process, but Maya is not one who obeys orders. [MayaxZer0]


**Hello! This is my _very first Borderlands_ Fanfiction. I have seven years of writing experience in other communities. I hope this is up to par with my other writings, which are aplenty, and quite popular on Tumblr and Archive Of Our Own. I also have thorough experience in playing Borderlands and roleplaying as Maya. If you have a problem with cursing, which I implement to provide a semblance of realism to Pandora, blood, violence, drug-references, and sexual themes, I suggest that you do not continue reading. The M-rating is an umbrella - though now there is not a lot of these themes, there will be. And please, refrain from pushing your characterization of Zer0 or Maya down my throat. Enjoy. And please, stop comparing this fanfiction to Demons and Damsels. The other writer of this fanfiction, whom I do respect, does not deserve critiques or praises out of her/his view. The concepts are similar, but remember that no concept is original. This is a popular concept in other fandoms as well, so don't throw a fit because this is a similar idea! Also, my characterization of Zer0 is less human and it will take a longer time to develop a romantic relationship with Maya, so be prepared for less sex-after-sex in these chapters. This is a more story-driven piece. Again, Enjoy!**

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The blue-haired beauty descends into the wasteland called Pandora.

Bullet shells had fallen in fine siftings. Battle's insignia, the blood-encrusted flush, had begun to rear it's head, emerging from the silence Maya had grown accustomed to. Unwelcome and brash, battle fell upon Maya without any warning. She hates the abrupt change. Hates it.

When Maya's eyes dwindled open, the remnants of her fairly pleasant daydream were chased away by a loud crackle. Her hand came up to touch her damp forehead. A rare stipple of perspiration rests against the base of her hairline. She jerks her head, lulling it to the side as her eyes adjusted to the jovial screen of sunlight that beckoned her to fully pull herself out of her haziness. But, she lets her eyes flutter closed again. Far too many striated colors and blurred shapes overwhelmed her senses. Her clenched hand came up to rub her eyes, an involuntary yawn slipping from her lips. She's not going to mind this battle as much as she should. She sees an oncoming gaggle of Nomads and Psychos and thinks that this will be a piece of cake. Alas, it is not what she expects it to be.

It only takes ten minutes for the situation to turn on its head.

Encased in a weak shell of red, she clutches at her exposed side, half-expecting her hand to stem some of the blood loss. The increased pressure only brings an influx of pain. She gnashes her teeth. But even through this pain, she displays remarkable resolve as she shoots an oncoming Psycho with her shotgun. The Psycho propels backwards, grunting as his body tenses, and then slackens against the makeshift wall. This siren does not flinch at the sound, or even at the recoil of the gun in her hands, she just treks onwards, hoping to scavenge some form of a healing aid off of a corpse of one of the degenerates. They throw themselves at her unceremoniously, hoping to topple her, but not kill her. She knows what these types of scum did to women like her. And she would not let that happen.

She tosses her head in all directions, coughing out a chuckle as she watches yet another drove of Psychos emerge from inside one of the metal-clad huts. She weakly flicks her wrist, and up they all go, suspended in her Phaselock. She raises her shotgun. Instead of a shower of bullets, only absent clicks resounded as she desperately pulled the trigger. She keeps at it; the trigger still only conjuring the sound that signaled the absence of bullets. Maybe some will come if she continues to press it. As if some god will call forth divine bullets and load her gun.

The Psychos come back down. She tosses aside her empty shotgun. It's bound to be over now. The drug-addled men cackle, readying their wrenches as they half-jog towards her. She would rather die by her own hand than suffer at the hands of these pigs. She lets out a strangled grunt and flicks her hand, knowing that this motion will not buy her enough time in the state she is in. If she were able-bodied, she could sprint away from these beasts like a coward. But, alas, her state is so dilapidated that all she can manage is a slow hobble away from them. The Psychos slam against the same wall that their comrade perished. She presses all of her energy into her pursuit onward, away from the Psychos, but one tosses his wrench at her and hits her calf. She almost tumbles, but keeps her balance. She can hear them gaining on her. Their laughs rebound in the cavern. Hyenas that have finally taken down the lion.

"Go fuck yourselves."

She growls; she can't stand their taunting chortles, and she can't stand the words that cascade out of their mouths like brine on her wounds. On any other day, she would've been able to take their quips with a smug smirk. Now, she simply is at the end of her rope. It's not like she can do anything. If she had a knife, she would cut out their tongues. Too bad she only had the shotgun she tossed aside. Her melee skills are less than what she needs to take them down, especially when one hand is occupied at her side.

In the distance, a form dances through the air. Maybe it was a silhouette of a rock, and her eyes were just tricking her. A mirage, the ones that people get before they die of thirst in a desert or something. She rubs her eyes with one of her hands. Another wrench makes contact with her shoulder blade. She does not topple. She stops, though, peering through the murky haze. Her phaselock keeps a few of the psychos at bay, the others are entranced by the blue glow that is entwined in their friends. Her mouth tastes like sand and copper. Maybe she is dehydrated, because the figure that is slipping through the air like a cat seems to be a humanoid. Not a stag, a bullymong, or a thresher. A being in dark-colored armor, masked from head to toe. She doesn't get a chance to examine this person further, because a Psycho has finally reached her. She feebly fends him off, staggering him backwards with a burst of bright blue light, but she does not know how much longer she is able to take this confrontation.

The being recognizes her, she assumes. Once the armored thing catches her blue-light in its visor, it saunters towards her. Perhaps another vault hunter? She cannot tell, but for some reason a massive, red question mark appears above his helmet. Bathed in the vermilion glow of his projection, she resigns to her insanity and droops her head towards the Psychos that have begun to pool around her yet again. One of them lunges forward, hitting her abdomen with a blow hard enough to knock the wind out of her. She finally collapses to her knees, out of breath and out of energy, and bows her head. A Psycho readies himself over her, bracing his hand as he rises his wrench. He intends to knock her out.

Yet, nothing comes. Only the sound of muffled cries and the faint sound of bodies making contact with the terrain. When she opens her eyes, she is greeted with the silent figure, whose helmet still basks the cavern in a soft red shade. She expects him to speak, but nothing comes but an amused hum, as if he is seeing some sort of humor in her situation. He's probably never seen a siren before. Or one that has been bested by a wave of bandits. She has no sense of shame at this point, only staring at him in a lackluster fashion. He lowers his sniper rifle, tilting his head to the side, waiting for her to say something. He realizes rather quickly that she may not be able to speak much in her condition, and instead takes a step towards her, close enough to hear her halting breaths.

The siren raises her hands above her head, a grimace spreading across her lips. Despite not knowing his facial expression through his armor, she can sense a smug smirk on this thing's lips. Or lack thereof. Perhaps it is just a gaping, teeth-lined maw under that mask. She mutely ponders that one would have to be pretty ugly in order to feel compelled to wear a mask that completely conceals their face. Her mind wanders to mundane things, infirm of any direction, and the cold beast before her continues to perpetuate the astringent silence.

Mechanically, the armored beast extends one lithe arm. She only stares at it vapidly, removing her hand from her side. Torrents of blood spill forth, onto the gravel before her, and a large exclamation point appears in front of the stranger's visor. It looks like a slipup, because when he speaks, it conveys no alarm or emotion. He must feel obligated to patch her wounds.

"You're clearly wounded. Consent to me treating you. I will not kill you."

He talks slowly to her, as if disciplining a child. She only coughs in response, raising her hand to place upon his. When she raises her head, she notices his alien fused-fingers. His deep, masculine voice is akin to any other bandit or raider out there, but this makes him a standout among the others. An alien? Is he going to probe her the moment she loses consciousness? If she could, she would laugh at her own thoughts. She doesn't quite put her hand against his, and he appears to grow impatient with this. His words, stern and completely emotionless, return.

"You just can't listen. Getting lost in solipsism?"

He [assuming this thing is male] quirks his head. The red projection flickers away. She hoods her eyes, groaning, and her head grows more and more blurry.

"Take my hand, siren."

She places a shaky, blood-addled hand in his gloved one. He, again, lets out this obnoxious amused hum, watching her through the opaque mask she would love to take off of him. She can't translate any emotion from him, and this is her last thought before succumbing to the shock and blood loss.

When her eyes peel open, she is greeted by the slits of light weeping through poorly constructed walls. The siren believes she is alone, but when she pulls herself onto her elbows, she sees the sleek black figure of the man she encountered earlier. The strain of propping herself up sends horrible waves of agony to her head, and she resumes laying down, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes.

"Where the hell am I?" She asks, her head lulling over to look at the space where he once resided, but now is absent from. Widening her eyes, she instantly begins to panic, her breath rate increasing as she steadily rises from her laying position, but is only pushed down as his form manifests itself above her, looming over her as he presses a single fingertip to the front of her chest. Only then does she notice that she is only wearing the standard sports bra that was under her armor. She feels her teeth clench as she looks up at her offender [and protector, but she does not admit this]. Maybe he got cold feet and couldn't bring himself to remove the bit of cloth covering her chest, because it is stained with blood and probably smells rank.

"Nice." She says sarcastically, lowering herself onto her back again. It takes the strain off of her muscles again, but she feels tense. He does not remove his [pointer?] finger from her sternum. She realizes that he is checking her pulse only moments before he removes his finger. She expects an explaination for this action, but when none comes, she instantly tries to push his finger away, growing into a dissident at this unexplained 'bossing around' she is experiencing.

She can hear him scoff. Really? How unempathetic can one get.

"You need to stay calm. And avoid tearing stitches. Just try to lay down."

He says the last two sentences like they are afterthoughts. Does he really think she isn't justified in her actions? He again, pushes her back into a laying position, becoming more rough and irate. He is trying to establish his position, which is presently higher than hers. He will regret this later.

"Since you haven't asked yet, my name is Maya."

She says this slowly, wrapping her lips around almost unfamiliar syllables. Nobody asked her name, mostly. It was either friend or foe on Pandora, and most of the time it was foe. They don't care for names. They'd rather keep things impersonal as they put a bullet between your eyes. He's proved himself slightly different than the Psychos; he saved her. Still didn't ask for her name, though.

"I'd like the name of my benefactor, too." She says, hissing out the name 'benefactor'. "And I really hope you aren't expecting something from me because you kept me from those bandits."

Maya pats her empty pockets, frowning deeply at the man.

"My name comes, goes. But the dying gasps of foes… say it is Zero."

The siren scoffs, rolling her eyes dramatically as she averts her gaze. He's playing this mysterious demeanor over the top. If he really is living up to his name, he would've let her rot on the battlefield instead of taking her and patching her up. A man of few words? That vibe grew old quick from her experience. The sooner she departs from his company, the better.

"Well, 'Zero', I can't sit around and piss time away. I was on my way to the Sanctuary, not to lay on some crusty cot in a shanty."

Maya raises her arms, trying to flip herself onto her side, but only manages to roll a bit before hitting the stitches and causing pain to stiffen her muscles. She gasps, winces, then rolls onto her back again.

"Help me up, will you?"

She outstretches her arms, but instead of taking hold of them and hoisting her up, he pushes her arms back against the cot. Stern, and a bit more rough than his last gesture. He also appears mildly disgusted to touch her, because he retracts away from her the moment he isn't required to touch her any longer.

Maya lets out yet another scoff, her expression contorting into anger.

"...I guess that's a no. I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

She places her hands over her hip, where the flesh is drawn as tight as a string, muscles and sinew sewn together to create a taut line. It weeps blood from time to time, and when she presses against it, red stains her fingertips. Zero grabs her wrist as if she were a child that has just taken the last cookie. Then, he quickly lets go, again, without any explanation.

He stiffens, as if he's broken character, then picks up a wadded up, ripped cloth, laying it delicately onto the wound. His touch is lighter than she expects. She looks up at him with an arched eyebrow. He's weird. But for some reason, she is curious about him. She decides to try to push a button to see if any emotion will overwrite this demeanor of his.

"Can you help me take off my pants and bra?" She asks, devoid of shame, "They're dirty, and I'm not really happy to stay basking in old blood and grime. It'll be best for my healing, right? And that's my first priority now."

Maya sees Zero visibly stiffen even further, his visor blanking his emoticon. It's like the stick up his ass got twisted or something. He quirks his head down at her, trying to keep any foreign thought from intruding on his typically serene mind. He wanted to ask why she couldn't do it on her own, but was reminded that stretching her arms above her head and rapid movement might break the stitching. He does not know if he can handle doing such a thing at this time. He pivots, saunters over to a nearby half-crushed commode, and fishes out a pair of dull, rusty scissors.

"Cut your underclothes. I shall deal with what remains."

His tone is so uptight; Maya would've laughed if she didn't fear that he'd take advantage of her current vulnerability. So it's that easy to pluck his strings? She tosses her hair out of her eyes, watching him place the scissors atop her chest hesitantly. She reaches to them, plucking them from their position against her navel. A trail of rust is left in their wake, which disgusts her, and causes her nose to wrinkle. She, again, looks up at him.

"Could you get this rust off me?"

She asks simply, tilting her head at him. He takes several experimental steps away from her, then towards her, and brushes the rust away with an unbearably tense hand. Intentionally, she contracts her muscles under his touch, which obviously alarms him. He takes a step back, again, keeping a distance. Without savoring the moment, she snips the remaining cloth that clings to her maltreated upper body. Zero turns away and crosses his arms behind his back.

Without pivoting, Zero throws a rather clean sheet in her direction, a non-verbal instruction to cover her chest. Men, alien or not, are truly all the same. She sighs mockingly, placing the sheet atop her chest, before wiggling her hips a bit. He doesn't seem to be expressing any outright emotions - like embarrassment or confusion, but she can feel the air grow thicker with each choice she makes. He has clammed up, after all.

"Help me get these off, too."

He bristles, all of a sudden not doing a good job of concealing his confusion as he creeps over, placing a hand against the button of her pants. She looks at him expectantly, and he pulls the button free. She shimmies a bit as he pulls them off of her.

Zero cannot help himself as he drinks in this image of the Siren, strewn on a cot he used to call his own, half-naked and vulnerable. This is the image he is not used to, and it is mildly pornographic in nature. To see a powerful woman in such a state. She appears to be unfazed by this position, possibly used to it? Or maybe she knows that if she wanted to, she could send Zero across the room with her Phaselock, or even kill him. A challenge. He hears her speak words that only puzzle him.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer."


End file.
